


I've Been Awake For So Long

by Chash



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-20 00:03:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9466586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chash/pseuds/Chash
Summary: When Bellamy finds a craigslist ad looking for a caretaker for a furnished condo, it sounds pretty great to him. It's a short-term gig while the owner's daughter is in rehab or something, and he figures that'll give him time to find a new place of his own, and even let him pick up some extra cash.It would be perfect, except that the daughter isn't in rehab, she's in a coma. And she's haunting him.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LegendOfClarkeGriffin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LegendOfClarkeGriffin/gifts).



> Second giveaway fic, for [clakreqriffin](http://clakreqriffin.tumblr.com/), who wanted a Just Like Heaven AU! I have not actually seen this movie, so this is inspired by the wikipedia article. Because that's how I roll.

The craigslist ad is a little odd, but Bellamy can't help being intrigued: _Caretaker needed for 2br 1bath condo. Condo is furnished, resident is indisposed for unknown period. Cat care required. Serious applicants only._

There are pictures and a contact number, and the neighborhood is really nice, not the kind of place someone's going to rent property just for a scam. And, well, it sounds kind of perfect for him right now, actually. Just the kind of thing he needs.

Bellamy's been having a little trouble settling in to a new place. He and his girlfriend broke up six months ago, and he let her take the apartment even though his name was on the lease because he would have felt like an asshole either staying there or kicking her out. She kept the furniture and gave him some cash for it, and he moved in to his best friend's guest room. Which was fine, until his Miller decided he wanted Monty to move in with him. And they haven't kicked him out or anything, but he feels like he should kick himself out; they deserve some privacy.

Moving to a furnished apartment for a short-term stay would probably be good. He's got a deadline to leave, and he can figure out where he wants to be and what he wants to be doing, and he's not going to be tempted to settle in, because the owner's coming back any day. He'd _have_ to be ready to move on.

It's exactly what he's looking for.

He emails the contact person with the requested references, and she responds a few days later to set up an interview, and he and Miller google the name--Anya Kitano--and verify that she's a real person before he meets her, just to be safe. She's a named partner at a law firm, which is legit enough Bellamy almost doesn't want to go, but--it _would_ be great.

They meet at a coffee shop near the apartment, and Anya sizes him up for a minute, nods, and takes a sip of her coffee and goes into it without preamble. "My client's daughter is the primary resident of the condo, but she's had a medical emergency that requires an extended hospital stay."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Bellamy says, automatic. It sounds like a rehab situation to him, or maybe some kind of embarrassing social habit that the rich mother doesn't want in the public eye for a while, but it's not like it's any of his business, and it would probably be weird if he asked.

"In light of that, the position is slightly unusual. My client had been staying in the condo herself, but she has to go back to California, so she needs someone else to care for the property. It's nothing difficult--feed the cat, water the plants, report any issues with heat, plumbing, anything like that--but the nature of the situation is such that I can't offer you a very concrete idea of how long your services would be required."

He nods. "Yeah, of course. I get that." She's straightforward and clearly values that in others, so he adds, "I've been living with a friend while I look for my own place, but I haven't been having much luck. It would be nice to get out of his hair, and I'm already used to not having a permanent setup."

"I see. I'd like to employ you on a monthly contract. Depending on her daughter's condition, it could be anywhere from one to six months. If her daughter is planning to return, you'll have until the end of the current month or two weeks to find a new place to live, whichever is longer. And if you don't find somewhere within that period, my client would be willing to offer further assistance. A hotel or similar."

It seems too good to be true, but he doesn't want to say that, so he just goes with, "That seems fair."

"Have you ever had a cat?"

"My ex-girlfriend had two. I wasn't the primary caretaker, but I'd feed them and clean the litter box when I needed to. I like cats."

She nods. "The stipend for the position is $150 per week, and of course rent is included. You will have to pay for all groceries yourself, cat food included, but if there are any problems with the apartment itself, you can contact me and I'll arrange for repairs and we'll pay for those. Does that sound acceptable?"

Bellamy actually chokes. He's been paying Miller $500 a month for his guest room, which was already incredibly cheap. He'd be making more than that to live somewhere, and he can save his whole paycheck. He can live on $150 a week, easy.

"I get a stipend?" he asks, before he can stop himself.

Anya actually quirks a smile. "This is a very stressful time for my client, as I'm sure you can understand. What she wants is to pay enough that this is not something she has to worry about. So she is paying me to deal with it for her, and I, in turn, would be paying you. I assume you can stay in the condo and cause minimal problems."

Bellamy wonders what it would be like, to have so much money that he could just pay his problems to take care of themselves. Maybe it would make the ones he couldn't do that to--like a daughter's mysterious illness--all the worse.

Then again, he guesses Anya's client has amazing health insurance, so it's not really a great equalizer or anything.

"Yeah," he says, when he realizes Anya's still watching him. "I can definitely do that."

"Good. Do you have time to take a look at the space now? Assuming everything is to your liking, we'd like to get you in as soon as possible."

"Yeah, that's fine," he says, and finds himself following her out of the coffee shop and down the block, to a brownstone. An actual brownstone, one of those buildings that people live in in movies about people in cities. There are window boxes with flowers on the first floor, and he hopes it's not his job to keep them looking nice. He's confident about his ability to keep plants alive, but less confident about his ability to keep them presentable enough for whatever rich people live here.

Fuck, he's going to have to keep this girl's apartment that presentable. But it's not like he's a messy person. He'll be fine.

Anya takes him up to the third floor and unlocks a door, and Bellamy feels himself relax. The place is neat and tidy, but it doesn't feel untouchable, like he worried it might. The furnishings are nice, but uncoordinated, the couch apparently bought for comfort and not style, and the shelves crowded with books and DVDs. It looks like a person lives here, and he can maintain that look. It seems like a pretty good fit.

The cat doesn't come out during the tour, which doesn't particularly surprise him; he had been dating Gina for a full month before he met her second cat, and even then, he only saw her about one in three times he came to visit. It wasn't until he moved in that Gandalf warmed to him, and even then he was still skittish.

Still, it's probably his most important duty, so he asks Anya, "What's the cat's name?"

"Alanna." She casts around with a frown, as if she only just noticed the cat didn't come out. "I'm sure she's--"

"She'll get used to me," he says, shrugging. "I know how cats are. I'm not offended."

"Good." She looks him over again and then nods once. "So, when can you give me an answer about the position? As I said, we're trying to move quickly."

"Today," he says, without hesitation. He'd be an idiot to wait. "Like I said, I'm basically couch-surfing, I don't need much lead-in time. So I can work with your timeline. Everything's furnished, so even if I can't get all my stuff in right away, I can start living here basically whenever."

Anya's one of those people who doesn't seem like she looks _pleased_ very often, but he thinks she at least approves. "I'd like you in place as soon as possible. Is tomorrow too soon to sign the contract?"

"Not too soon," he says. "Like I said, I'm mobile."

She nods. "I already contacted your references, so I'm set to move forward with the hiring once the paperwork is done. Come by the office tomorrow at two, and we'll get you squared away."

"Awesome," he says, unable to keep a smile off his own face. "See you tomorrow."

*

There is a non-trivial part of Bellamy that feels bad for hoping that someone's serious medical issue lasts for as long as possible. But after a week of living in his new condo, he's hoping that whatever rehab the current occupant is going through lasts for a while, just so he can stick around.

The mysterious occupant of the house is definitely someone he thinks he'd get along with, based on her taste in books, movies, and video games, which, again makes him feel worse about the whole loving her apartment thing, but--well, he hopes she's doing _well_.

He's just also enjoying his new semi-job.

He doesn't actually have much stuff, so he and Miller rented a zipcar on Sunday night, pile everything into the back, and drive over to the new place. Miller oohed and ahed over the setup, Bellamy was slightly smug, and then Miller left and he was alone, feeling weirdly like he was living in a hotel.

The feeling has faded by now, and he's mostly just at home. Alanna the cat has started making friends with him, and that's definitely going well. She's affectionate and sweet and likes butting her head against his arm when he's not paying enough attention to her. The place is located close to the train, and his commute is shorter and easier than it was before. He gets groceries and cooks himself meals and feels more like a real adult than he ever has in his life.

Until he starts, well--losing things.

Not even losing them, just misplacing them. He's sure he washed a pot and then he finds it soaking in the sink again. He was playing one game and finds another in the Playstation when he goes to start over again. Even though he's not reading _Graceling_ , it keeps showing up on the coffee table, like it thinks he _should_ be reading it. Like it's trying to get his attention. Sometimes, he's sure he hasn't fed the cat yet, but finds that the cat still has plenty of food, and he's pretty sure the cat is eating enough. If anything, the cat is eating _too much_.

It's weird enough it's actually starting to worry him. He's never had this problem before, especially not when he's living alone. When he lived with his sister, especially, he was used to his shit disappearing all the time, because Octavia would just see something and "borrow" it, and Miller compulsively cleans, so his shit would always disappear.

But unless the cat is using the dishes while he's at work or asleep, he doesn't have anyone else to blame for this. This is on him.

"I don't sleepwalk, do I?" he asks Miller. They're getting lunch, in an attempt to maintain normal human contact. Bellamy still isn't sold on doing lunch, as a ritual--or on normal human contact, honestly--but at least the burger place they're at is good.

"Huh?" asks Miller.

"Sleepwalk. You never, like, woke up and found me making oatmeal in the middle of the night or anything, right?"

Miller pauses. "That's weirdly specific. Does it have to be oatmeal?"

"Any sleepwalking would be fine."

"Not that I can remember. Why?"

"No reason."

"Uh huh. How's the new place?"

"Good!" he says, a little too enthusiastic even though it's true. "Awesome. Perfect. Yeah, it's great."

"Yeah, you convinced me. Definitely not compensating for anything."

"Seriously, I really like it. I just think I started sleepwalking and it's freaking me out."

"Because you're making oatmeal in the middle of the night?"

"That was just an example," he grumbles. "Cooking, moving books, feeding the cat. Maybe it's just, like--I'm living in a new place, it freaks me out, whatever."

Miller looks worried, which was what Bellamy was afraid of. As much as he'd like to believe that spontaneous, new-environment-based sleepwalking is a real thing, he doesn't really believe it is. And he doesn't have a secondary explanation.

"How's your mental health insurance?" Miller finally asks.

"Shitty, like all my insurance."

"Yeah, well. Maybe call your doctor anyway. They can't charge you for a phone call, right?"

"I'm pretty sure they can." He rubs his face. "It's probably nothing."

"It's bad enough you're telling me about it. Seriously, just call someone. Figure out if you're sleepwalking or whatever. That would freak me out. It should be freaking you out."

"Trust me, it is. Come on, you don't think I'd really tell you if I wasn't freaking out, right? You know how I feel about talking about my feelings."

"Yeah, I know. But a professional is going to make fun of you less."

"I guess so. Thanks, though."

"Just make sure you don't have a brain tumor or something. Maybe whatever took out the girl who lived there before is contagious."

Bellamy has to smile a little. "Maybe."

It seems like an absurd suggestion, right up until he gets home and sees a girl leaning into his fridge.

"What the fuck?" he asks, and she jumps, spins around, and vanishes into thin air.

The cat meows and looks around the place the girl was, and then runs over to Bellamy to complain to him about it.

"You saw that too, right?" he asks, leaning down to scoop Alanna up. "You can be my witness."

"Who the fuck are you?" someone demands, and Bellamy looks up to see that the girl is back at the fridge. She's dressed in scrubs, with her hair in a messy bun, and she's got her hands on her hips. She's pretty, which he guesses is a pro, in terms of weird hallucinations, but it's hard to care much about that when she's, again, a weird hallucination.

The cat squirms in his arms and he lets her go, watches as she runs over to the girl. Which is, again, the least comforting kind of comfort. Cats can probably see ghosts. It's not like Alanna doesn't spend tons of time staring at nothing. Maybe _everything_ she stares at is actually a ghost. Maybe he's surrounded.

"Who the fuck am _I_?" he asks. "You're the one raiding my fridge. And disappearing."

A shadow crosses her face. "What?"

He nods his head in her direction. "My fridge. And you disappeared and freaked the cat out."

"My fridge. My cat. My apartment. So unless you've got a good explanation for what you're--"

"Your cat?" he blurts out. "What's her name?"

"Alanna," says the girl. "Seriously, I'm going to call the cops. You need to--"

"Your mom was supposed to tell me when you were out of rehab!" he says. "It's not my fault!" And then he remembers that she _literally disappeared in front of his eyes_. "You're not in rehab."

"No," she says. "I'm here."

"No, I mean--you _disappeared_. Seriously. The cat saw you do it."

Her mouth quirks up in a small smile. "Are you citing the cat as evidence?"

"If I had other evidence, I'd cite it instead." He swallows. "What's your name?"

"Clarke."

"Okay, I'm Bellamy. Someone--I guess your mom--hired me to house sit while her daughter was dealing with a medical thing. To take care of Alanna and water the plants, because she had to go back to California." He wets his lips. "Are you, uh--are you reading _Graceling_?"

"Do you keep moving my book?" 

"I'm just trying to keep the apartment clean!" he protests. And then, he can't help adding, "Seriously, you disappeared. Like--literally in front of my eyes. Poof."

"I did not," she says.

He considers. "How long have you been living here?"

"A few years."

"Yeah, but-- _now_. You must have noticed my stuff."

She looks torn. "I noticed the guest room was occupied, yeah. But--I couldn't really think about it." Her expression falters, and then she flickers out of existence again. It's less instantaneous this time; before it was a pop, this time it looks like the reception is going out on a TV.

He goes to the fridge and gets water, and then gets a beer, while he's at it.

The thing is, her story, to the extent that it exists, checks out. He still gets mail for the apartment's actual resident, and her name is definitely Clarke Griffin. Which means--what, exactly? She's not in rehab, he's pretty sure. But that doesn't mean he has a better explanation for what's happening here.

He thinks about getting in touch with Anya, but he's not sure what to say. _Did Clarke Griffin die and come back to haunt me?_ seems both presumptuous and kind of stupid, because he's pretty sure if Clarke had died, someone would have told him. 

Besides, this has been happening almost since he moved in, so if she _is_ haunting the apartment, she's been doing it for a little while.

"No one is haunting the apartment," he says, mostly to remind himself. He's having some kind of psychotic beak, probably. He knew Clarke's name, he could have made up an appearance for her.

Maybe she's on Facebook. That's a good place to start. Look up Clarke Griffin, verify that she looks absolutely nothing like the girl he saw in the kitchen, and then figure out what his mental health coverage looks like and make an appointment. Because this is--

"Did I disappear again?"

He jumps, because Clarke is on the couch next to him. "Jesus, can you wear a bell or something?" he asks. "Yes, you disappeared. And I'm talking to my fucking psychosis. Fuck. Is this why your mom put you in the hospital?"

"I'm not in the hospital," she snaps. 

"Sorry, do you have a better theory for why you're appearing a disappearing? Mine is that I'm having a psychotic break, but maybe whatever part of my subconscious made you has a better idea."

"I'm not part of your subconscious either." But her scowl is fading, her expression softening into something small and lost. "I knew something was wrong," she finally says. "But I'm always tired, and I always kind of feel like I'm--" She waves her hand. "I'm a doctor. I work in the ER. It always feels kind of like I don't know where I am or where I'm going."

"Wow, that does not make me feel good about healthcare."

"Shut up. I'm a good doctor. But, yeah, at the end of a long shift, I'm usually getting a little loopy."

"Yeah, when I get tired I just wink out of existence too. That's normal." He rubs his face. "Jesus, why am I even having this conversation? Miller's right, I'm probably fucking--there's a gas leak in here or something, and the doctors haven't figured it out yet. So the real Clarke Griffin is in a hospital somewhere because she's hallucinating and whatever the next symptoms are, and her mom doesn't know. This is why House always broke into people's places," he adds. "So he could find the gas leak and figure out the impossible diagnosis."

"Your understanding of medicine is uncanny," she says, dry. "That's exactly how we do it. _House_ was definitely a documentary."

"I'm being haunted, I don't think there are any good documentaries about that."

Clarke opens and closes her mouth, like she's going to argue, and then she slumps back on the couch. "Can you just tell me what happened again? From the beginning."

"I saw a craigslist ad. Looking for a caretaker for a condo. I met with a lawyer representing the owner's mother. She told me the current resident was having medical issues, but they gave me the impression you could be home any day, or gone as long as six months."

"So you assumed rehab?"

"Hey, I'm not a doctor. It seemed plausible."

Clarke worries her lip. "Six months is a long time. You never checked?"

"I thought about it," he admits. "Once I got your name off the mail, I figured I could maybe google you, try to figure out what happened. But medical records are confidential and, Jesus, it felt creepy."

"You should do it," she says, shifting closer.

"Thanks, enabling figment of my imagination."

" _I_ don't know what happened," she says. "I thought I was just--doing the same things I always did. Going to work and reading and feeding the cat, and whenever I thought about it I'd--" She looks away. "Anyway, you should look and see what happened."

"I already know. I'm having a psychotic break."

"If you just google my name, it's not even creepy," she says. "You're just finding publicly accessible information." _Clarke Griffin hospital_."

"Don't you work at the hospital? Won't that skew the results?"

"Probably. Just try it."

The first few hits are about a Dr. Clarke Griffin, a resident at Arcadia Women's Hospital, and he almost clicks them for to see if there are pictures, but then Clarke breathes, "Accident," and his eyes slide down the page to the headline she's looking at.

_Local doctor in critical condition after hit-and-run, rushed to own ER_

"You want to read it?" he asks. Even if she is just in his head, he can be polite.

"Please."

There's a picture right at the top, a slightly younger version of the girl next to him, probably from her hospital ID given her expression and outfit. It doesn't prove anything, he realizes. If he's already hallucinating, there's no reason his brain can't screw this up too. But it still makes him feel a little bit better.

The facts are fairly sparse: just after midnight about a month ago, Clarke Griffin, 29, was hit by a car outside her place of work. She was rushed to the ER in critical condition, and police were still looking for information on the car that hit her.

"Coma," says Clarke, flat.

"Where does it say that?" he asks, looking around.

"It doesn't. But--that's got to be it. I was in an accident, and they saved me, but they don't know if I'll ever wake up." He watches her face, a play of emotions under the surface, not quite readable. "Six months, right? That was how long she wanted you?"

"Maximum of six months, yeah."

She nods, once. "So if I'm not awake by then, that's probably when my mom gives up and pulls the plug."

"No way," he says, kneejerk. "Six months?"

"She's a doctor too," she says. "She probably talked to them, found out--" Her expression settles into a grim smile. "That's what she thinks is best."

"But you're--" he starts, and twists up his mouth. 

Clarke smiles. "I don't know if appearing as a ghost before I'm dead is really encouraging."

"You're not a _ghost_ ," he says. "You feed the cat and use dishes. You're reading, so--you can interact with objects, at least in the apartment."

"Unless I'm a figment of your imagination and you're doing all this yourself as part of an extended psychotic break."

"Don't start," he growls, and she smiles wider. And then, to his surprise, she reaches out and puts her hand on his shoulder. It's a light, soft touch, experimental, and she feels--real, but not quite _normal_. There's something slightly off about her, like her body doesn't have quite enough weight.

"Okay," she says. "So, that's you. What about me?"

"What about you?"

"Can you touch me?"

"I'm touching you now," he points out, but he guesses the question makes sense. He brings his own hand up hesitantly, covers hers. Her skin is a little cool, still a little unreal, but he's not convinced he'd notice either, if he wasn't paying attention. 

Then he notices that he's sitting next to a pretty girl on his couch, with his hand on hers, and he startles away.

"Okay, so, yeah. You can interact here," he says, voice coming out gruff.

Clarke tries not to smile, but he can tell. "And I thought I was going to work, but--I'm not actually sure."

"I wasn't seeing you for a while. But I guess if you work at the ER, you keep pretty weird hours."

"Yeah. I sleep at the hospital a lot. That's actually why I got the cat," she adds, reaching over to scratch Alanna with a small smile. The cat definitely prefers Clarke, but Bellamy can't be upset about that. He's still thankful that someone is around to confirm that he's seeing her, even if the other person is a cat. "I still work stupid hours, but at least I have to come home to make sure Alanna gets fed."

"Which is also my job, so we should make sure we're not over-feeding her." He chews on his bottom lip, thinking. "Fuck. What the fuck do I do here? Should I call your mom?"

Clarke snorts. "And say what?"

"If she's a doctor, maybe she'll get me a free MRI."

"I think she'd probably think you were scamming her."

"If I wanted to scam someone, I wouldn't go with _I'm talking to your daughter, who might be in a coma_. We're not even sure," he points out. "I guess I could call the hospital and ask."

"They're not really supposed to just give out information about patients," she points out. "But I could give you my social and date of birth and stuff. Just say you're my boyfriend."

"Don't you work there? Aren't they going to know you don't have a boyfriend?"

"I don't know everyone there. Also, I don't really keep my coworkers up to date with my relationship status. A couple of them know I'm bi, and they know I had a girlfriend last year, but they also know we broke up. It's not going to be suspicious. I'm in a coma," she points out. "I'm not going to argue about it."

"We don't know you're in a coma, that's the whole point." He rubs his face. "Fuck, I can't believe I'm having this argument with you."

"I'm sorry," she says. "I promise, I didn't know I was haunting you. I just--" She flickers, and his hand darts out to hold her arm and goes right through.

Oddly, that seems to bring her back, and she solidifies and blinks.

"Do you think you went through me because I was disappearing, or something else?" she asks.

"I think I should drink this beer," he says, and raises it. "Cheers."

"Fair enough," says Clarke. "Cheers."

*

As it turns out, there isn't a great way to resolve the coma-ghost issue. Clarke convinces him to call the hospital, and he half-expects that the date of birth she gave him will be wrong, but they check the record and confirm that she's in a coma and tell him her visiting hours. Which are, not surprisingly, while he's at work.

"I can't really get a sub so I can go to the hospital and talk to a person in a coma I've never met," he points out.

"A sub?"

"I'm a teacher."

"Yeah?" she asks. "What kind of teacher?" 

It's weird, explaining parts of his life to someone who might be a part of his own head, but he's just sort of rolling with it. If nothing else, he likes talking to her. Whatever she is, she's pretty cool, smart and sarcastic and generally nice to have around. It's easy to just get swept up in talking to her.

Plus, she's a doctor, at least in theory, and she does seem to know something about medicine, even things he doesn't know. They agree that fact that he has no other symptoms is a comfort, and she has him call Miller so he can check out the article about her accident and verify that it says what he thinks it says, and, to Miller's confusion, that she's a blonde with blue eyes and wavy hair.

"Why are we fact-checking pictures?" Miller asks.

"No reason. Do you think I can get an MRI for fun, or do I need to justify it with some sort of evidence I need one?"

"I think if you ask that, that's enough reason to give you an MRI. Is this about the sleepwalking?"

"Kind of." He huffs. "Thanks for reading that article for me."

"Seriously, I'm getting worried. Can you just not live alone? Do you need a roommate or you lose it?"

"Maybe," he admits. His brain making up a ghost roommate to deal with his loneliness is one of the more plausible explanations for the whole thing.

It's just that, as rational as he is, Bellamy thinks that the most reasonable explanation is still, honestly, that he's being haunted. Because if there's something wrong with the apartment, he'd be experiencing other symptoms, right? If there was something so obviously wrong with him that he was seeing things that weren't there, Miller wouldn't be seeing the same girl he saw on the news article.

He could have just made up Clarke Griffin because he's lonely and her apartment has a slow gas leak that's going to land him in the hospital too, but it just seems unlikely. Her mother really _is_ a doctor too, if google is to be believed, and if the issue was actually with the apartment, they probably would have noticed.

So he schedules a checkup, just to be on the safe side, and when the doctor tells him everything looks normal, he lets himself accept that the simplest and most logical explanation for his life right now is that he's living with a semi-ghost.

And once he accepts that, it's actually really great. It is kind of like having a roommate, except that no one else can see her, and he has to be careful not to mention her, because if he does, he will have to explain her, and even if he's sold on the magical coma apparition, he doesn't think he'll be able to sell anyone else on her.

"I could at least tell your mom," he reminds her. It's been two months, and he just had his meeting with Anya to confirm he's in this position for another one, and Clarke's in a mood. Which he can't really blame her for--he'd be in a mood too, if he were her. He just wishes he could do something to help.

"Why?" she asks.

"I don't know. If my sister was in a coma and someone was talking to her spirit, I'd want to know about it. It seems polite."

Clarke smiles a little. "You're right, I don't think enough about ghost etiquette."

"I'm saying."

She leans back on the couch, closing her eyes. "I just think it's not worth the risk."

"What's the risk?"

"She thinks you're insane. Or, worse, trying to con her. If you tell her one of my childhood memories, she's not going to think you're talking to me, she's going to think you're a stalker and kick you out. And then I'm stuck with whoever she hires to take over for you."

"So you're telling me you'd miss me."

"I'm amazed I convinced one person to believe this, I don't want to start over."

"Yeah, but--we're revisiting this," he decides, finally. "If you're not awake in four months."

She tenses, and he almost regrets saying it. They don't talk much about the fact that Clarke is still alive, even if he's sure they're both acutely aware of it. Every time his phone rings, he's actually terrified it's going to be Anya, telling him something happened to her.

But if this could _help_ somehow, he doesn't want to keep it a secret. He doesn't want anyone pulling the plug on Clarke, not when she could wake up and--

Probably not remember this. Even if it's not a psychotic break, he's not convinced it wouldn't feel like a muzzy dream to her.

But she'd be alive and awake. He'd take it.

"Maybe this is just easing me into being a ghost," she says. "Pre-death training wheels."

"Clarke."

"I know." She huffs. "Do you think I could leave?"

"Like--cross over?" he asks, voice thick.

Her small snort of derisive laughter is the best thing he's ever heard, if only because it dismisses the idea so completely. "No, the apartment. I know I wasn't going to work, but I haven't tried to just go on my own. Like--through the door."

"Where would you be going?" he asks.

"Outside? Into the fresh air? Maybe breaking into a movie? You know when you're not home I'm just here, alone, or in a nebulous coma state, right?"

He rubs the back of his neck. "I was hoping the nebulous coma state was cool."

She smiles, and he knows he's forgiven. "It's mostly like being asleep, but not really refreshing. Just--there."

"Yeah." He lets out a breath. "So let's try it. Where do you want to go?"

"On a walk?"

"If no one else can see you I'm going to look like I'm nuts," he points out, but he's already putting his shoes on. 

"You don't have to talk all the time," she retorts. "Silence is golden."

"If you want me to shut up, you can just say it." He holds the door open. "After you."

There's a second of hesitation before she steps out the door, and even when she does, her face doesn't fully relax, not until they're outside the building entirely, standing fully on the sidewalk. She turns to him with the best and brightest smile he's ever seen, her face all lit up with wonder, and he can't breathe for a second.

He powers past the feeling and makes himself assess the situation. She looks less solid than she usually does, as if being in the light is exposing what she really is, and he's sure no one else will see her.

That feeling isn't helping either, so he swallows it too, goes down the steps to join her. "Walk?" he asks.

She's still beaming. "Walk."

He gets his phone out and puts it to his ear, like he's got someone to talk to, and Clarke grins. "Shut up," he says. "I'm being inconspicuous."

"You should have been a spy," she teases.

"Yeah, I missed my calling. Where do you want to go? This is your neighborhood. I haven't explored that much. For some reason I mostly just hang out in the condo."

"For some reason. Are you cold?"

It's early spring, the perfect temperature as far as he's concerned, and the sun is shining. Plus, Clarke's with him, walking by his side, largely immaterial, but happy. It's still nice.

"Nah, I'm fine. I assume you're never cold?"

"Yeah, that's not really one of the sensations I kept. There's a nice park? And a coffee shop. You could get coffee and I could smell it."

"Wow. Living on the edge."

"I'm working with the senses I have, okay? Smell, sight, limited touch."

"Can you feel the sun? And the breeze?"

"A little. Not like I used to, but--still good."

"Cool. Park and coffee sounds fun."

And it is, if more than a little awkward. It's not like he ever _forgets_ how weird the Clarke situation is, but it's different when he's out in the world, aware of her by his side, aware that no one else can see her, aware that if anyone _could_ , they'd look like a couple.

But it makes her happy, so he'll do it as much as she wants. 

It turns out that's a lot more than he expected, because when he gets home from school the next day, he finds Clarke moping on the couch.

"What's up?" he asks

"I can't leave without you," she says.

He frowns. "What?"

"I tried to leave the this morning, but I couldn't open the door, or get through it. I tried so hard I ended up blinking out of existence."

"Shit." He sinks down on the couch next to her with a sigh. "So, you're still stuck here when I'm not around?"

"Which is kind of cool, if you're me."

"How is that cool for you?"

"Well, if my mom kicks you out, I can probably go with you. Which I know sucks for you," she adds quickly. "I'm not saying you should be happy. But it sounds better to me that being stuck here."

"That doesn't suck for me. If you're going to be haunting anyone, you better haunt me." She smiles, and that gives him the courage to go on. "If you can just follow me around, you could hang out at school with me. If you're bored."

"Wouldn't it be distracting?"

"Only if you were an asshole about it. Are you going to try to distract me?"

She grins. "No promises."

He has to smile back. "Yeah, that sounds about right."

*

It was already a little like having a girlfriend, hanging out with Clarke, and this only makes it worse. She doesn't come to school every day, but she tags along more often than not, hangs around in his classroom and listens to him teach or reads. His room is by the courtyard, which is close enough she can sit out there too, sketching or just soaking up the sun.

They've found she can get about forty feet from him before she starts feeling as if she'll drift apart, and they test what happens when she does, once, and find she goes back to the apartment, not to his side, so they avoid it, unless she's bored at school.

So, yeah, it's in no way like having a real girlfriend, but it's still the best relationship he's had in years. They go to movies at weird times, when the risk of anyone sitting next to him is lower, and sit in coffee shops together, and spend evenings stretched out on the couch together, watching TV or just coexisting, and aside from the one giant, weird problem, it's the happiest he's ever been.

So of course Miller notices.

"So, you don't have a brain tumor, right?" he asks. "Or did you get the MRI and they said you only have six months to live and now you're embracing the moment or whatever?" 

Bellamy winces, can't help it, because--Clarke's got two months. And he doesn't have any fucking clue what to do about it.

"Wait, shit, really?" 

"No," says Bellamy. "No, it's not--I'm fine."

"Octavia?"

"Yeah, she's fine."

"And you're in a good mood."

If anyone in the world can take this in stride, it's Miller. Miller takes everything in stride. Miller lives his entire life in stride. "Uh, listen, it's--this is going to sound bad."

"Every conversation I've had with you since you moved into that apartment has been pretty troubling."

"Yeah, I guess." He wets his lips. "You know the girl who lives in my condo? The one in the coma?"

"The one you sent me the article about? What about her?"

"She's haunting me."

There's a long pause, and then Miller says, "So, you didn't get the MRI."

"I'm being serious."

"Your serious explanation involves being haunted."

"I don't know if it's technically haunting," he says. "I mean, she's not dead. She's just--in a coma. So, I don't know? Pre-haunted?"

"Bellamy."

That's the true sign that it's serious; Miller rarely calls him by name. 

"II know exactly how it sounds, okay? Trust me, I couldn't believe it either. But--it's happening, and it's fucked up, and her mom's going to pull the plug on her in a couple months and I have no idea how to stop that, because it's not like I can tell her, like--your daughter is haunting me, so she's definitely in there."

Miller watches him for a long minute. "You really believe this is happening."

"Fuck. I really do."

"And you're into her."

It seems pointless to deny it. "I know that's really egotistical, if she's just a figment of my imagination. But if she's just a figment of my imagination I've got bigger issues."

"You've definitely got big issues," says Miller, but his face is still thoughtful. "Can I meet her?"

It's actually a good question. "Huh," he says. "Maybe in the apartment. She's, uh--most tangible there."

Miller gives him a look. "How tangible does she get?"

"Shut up. Not like that." He ducks his head, flushing. "Seriously, she's--"

The look of sheer glee in his eyes at least makes it worth it. "Dude, she's, like, in a coma."

"Fuck you. Look, I know every part of this sounds made up, but she gets less visible when we leave the apartment, okay? It's, like, the source of her power. So if you want to meet her, you can come over and see if it works. We've never tried it before, so I'm not making any promises."

"I'm still withholding judgement," says Miller. "I might call--I don't know who you call for these situations, but I'd figure out and call them."

He drains his coffee. "Yeah, that sounds right. You want to come over now and get it over with?"

"Is your ghost girlfriend on a schedule?"

"Not a predictable one, but she usually tries to go into her weird coma existence when I'm asleep, so, yeah. Now should be fine."

"You realize I'm never going to stop making fun of you about this, right?" Miller asks. "Like, seriously, we're going to be eighty, and I'm going to be, like, hey, remember that time you brought me home to meet a coma patient you thought was haunting you?"

"What I'm hearing is that you think we're still gonna be friends when we're eighty," he shoots back. "And I should buy us best-friend necklaces."

"Will the necklaces say _coma girlfriend_ on them?"

"No, those are for me and Clarke. But I'll make sure I get you something pretty."

Miller knocks his shoulder against Bellamy's. "Seriously, it's the least you can do."

It's hard not to be nervous on the train. They don't talk about it, but--Bellamy can't actually believe Miller will be able to see her. It seems impossible.

But she should be able to manipulate things, right? She did it before he could see her. There must be a way to prove it's true, if it is.

And if there isn't a way to prove it, maybe the whole thing is a sign he's got a brain tumor and only six months to live himself. So that would be one question resolved.

He unlocks the door and sees Clarke at the bookshelf, looking for something to read. Miller's casting about, examining the place, and he shows no signs of noticing her, even when he checks the shelves.

"Hey, this is Miller. I told him about you," he tells her.

Her eyebrows shoot up. "Why?"

"It seemed like a good idea at the time. Nothing?" he adds, to Miller.

For once, he looks genuinely spooked. Miller's always liked telling ghost stories, but this isn't much like anything he ever came up with. "She's here?"

The cat is on the couch, looking wary, and Bellamy is struck with sudden inspiration.

"Yeah. Hey, Clarke, call the cat?"

"You're lucky she actually listens to me," Clarke says, not taking her eyes off Miller for a long minute. Bellamy has told her about Miller before, but it was probably kind of shitty to just spring this on her. But he wasn't _planning_ to. 

She must find what she was looking for, because she crouches down and clucks her tongue at the cat, patting her knees. "Hey, Alanna, come over."

Alanna perks up, jumps off the couch and meows as she runs over, butting her head against Clarke's hand for affection.

"Holy shit," says Miller.

Bellamy tries to remove Clarke from the image, and it would be bizarre, watching Alanna react to fingers that weren't there. Watching the cat arch up into a touch that doesn't exist.

"So, yeah," he says, with a relief so profound it's staggering. "That's Clarke."

*

"Sucks that you can't have beer," Miller says. Clarke is sitting on the couch next to Bellamy, on a scarf, so that Miller can tell where she is. He's dealing with it pretty well, Bellamy has to say. 

Bellamy himself is trying not to grin too hugely, because--Miller and Clarke are _interacting_. It's awesome.

"She can smell beer."

"Yeah, because _that's_ the appeal of beer," she teases. "The awesome smell."

"Just trying to get you to look on the bright side."

Miller's looking between them. "I guess this is less weird for you."

"Slightly, yeah. Still pretty weird," he adds, inclining his head.

"Imagine how weird it is for _me_ ," Clarke points out, and he bumps his shoulder against hers.

"We all know your life sucks the most. You're in a coma. It's the worst."

"You're a doctor, right?" Miller asks, looking mostly at Clarke. "Don't you know what to do about a coma?"

"Comas aren't actually a cured disease. Also, this is uncharted territory. Med school never prepared me for out-of-body experiences. This isn't scientifically sound."

"You should write a paper."

"If I ever wake up."

"If you ever wake up," he makes himself say. "She says it's uncharted territory."

"What have you tried?" Miller asks.

Bellamy and Clarke exchange a look. "What's to try?" he asks, when Clarke just shrugs.

"I don't know. There has to be a movie about this, right? You could be trying to jump back into your body or something."

"I'd have to get to it first," says Clarke, but she looks thoughtful.

"We haven't tried that yet," Bellamy tells Miller, when he remembers that Miller couldn't hear her. "Honestly, yeah. We haven't really been thinking about what she can do to get out of her coma."

"Maybe you should start," he says, and it's not like it's a _bad_ idea, but Bellamy just doesn't have a clue how to do that.

But apparently Clarke does, because once Miller's gone, she says, "You know the traditional cure, right?"

"Hm?" he asks.

"I'm asleep, right?"

"You're the doctor, you would know."

" _Bellamy_."

"Sorry, what's the plan?"

She catches her lip in her teeth, which is distracting enough and just gets worse when she says, "A kiss, right?"

His heart lodges in his throat. "I don't think that's a scientific solution," he says, but he's already stepping forward, moving closer.

"There's nothing scientific about any of this." Her smile is a little shy. "It can't hurt, right?"

He can't help a small, slightly pained smile. "It already hurts," he points out, and brings his hand up, careful, to cup her cheek. They've found that if he moves too quickly, he'll go right through her, but as long as he takes it slow, she's solid enough.

It's not really like a kiss. Not like he wants it to be. Her mouth is firm under his, and she kisses back instantly, eagerly, but when he opens his mouth against hers, it's--nothing. The inside of Clarke's mouth is without heat or moisture, indistinguishable from skin, and it's a sad parody of what he wants.

But at least she wants it too.

He gives it a little longer, enjoying the closeness if nothing else, but it's just not the same, and he pulls back to rest his forehead on hers.

"I guess that's not it," he says.

"No," she agrees. "But--I really wanted to."

"Me too." He strokes his thumb against her cheek. "I think it would be better if you were awake."

"Yeah." She buries her face against his neck, and he tries not to notice that he doesn't feel her breath. "Any other ideas?"

"Not yet," he lies. "I'll get back to you."

*

Bellamy has one idea, and he's kind of nervous about sharing it. He gets what Clarke is going through better than anyone, but he still doesn't really _understand_. And even if he thinks that Clarke's best and possibly only move is going to the hospital to face herself, he doesn't know how to suggest it without upsetting her. She's been pretty opposed to contacting her mother or getting in touch with her previous life, but it seems like the only possible way to do _anything_. 

It definitely seems like they should do that before he does anything more drastic, like trying to talk to a doctor about how Clarke is still sentient, because that's a last resort. 

But seeing herself--that seems logical.

School finishes up when he's just about to hit the last month of his lease, and he realizes he's been doing nothing to find a new place. Mostly, he's been putting off thinking about literally anything, because his whole life is a black hole of weirdness.

But at least school is done, and he's free during hospital visiting hours.

It's a Tuesday morning in June when he gets his nerve up. Clarke is lying with her head in his lap, reading, and it's warm and companionable and so perfect he _has_ to stop it. If he's never going to get this, he needs to find out soon. 

"Hey, we need to talk."

She blinks up at him. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." He wets his lips. "I really don't want you to die."

"Same."

"And I think you need to go to the hospital."

"I'm already at the hospital."

"No. _You_. I'm not saying you should jump into your body like Miller said, but--we have to do something, right? Fuck, Clarke, I can't just--"

"Yeah," she says. She leans up and presses her lips against his, the usual strange whisper of her lips, and then pushes off the couch to stand. "The hospital. We can go."

"We don't have to do it now, if you're not ready."

She pauses, and then tugs him down for another kiss, more insistent if no more satisfying. "I'm not saying you're all I have to live for or anything," she says, smiling a little. "But I really want to do that for real."

He smiles. "Yeah, okay. Let's go to the hospital."

The first issue is the one he wasn't expecting, after how easy the call was: he's not on Clarke's visitor list, so they won't tell him where she is.

It would probably be a major hurdle, except that he has a ghost on his side, and a ghost who used to work here, on top of that. Clarke tells him how to get to another entrance, the one she goes to when she forgets her ID because the security guy doesn't ask follow-up questions, so she just gives him a plausible floor he could be visiting, he signs in with the name _Blake Allen_ , and then he's in.

"Honestly, that was kind of an anti-climax."

"So close to your dream career as a spy," Clarke agrees. "Fifth floor."

He ducks into the bathroom while Clarke does recon and finds her room number, and when she reports back, he finds himself oddly nervous.

"You're not going to get caught," Clarke tells him, apparently noticing his anxiety. "If the doctor's in there, just say you're visiting. They don't have visitor lists, the front desk covers that."

"Do you think you have a lot of visitors?" he asks. He pulls out his phone, just in case anyone walks by. "I know your mom's not around."

"Probably not by now. Coma patients aren't very exciting."

"I don't know. I don't have as much experience as you do, but _my_ coma patient is--"

She elbows him. "As a rule."

"As a rule," he agrees. "508, right?"

"Yeah."

He lets out a breath. "I'm kind of nervous to meet you," he admits. "Is that weird?"

"I'm unconscious, so, yeah." There's a pause, and then she adds, deliberate, "And I love you. You really don't have anything to worry about."

"You're still in a coma. But I love you too."

The door opens without protest, and then there she is. Clarke's stretched out on the bed, eyes closed, hair loose around her shoulders, and all he can do for a second is stare.

"You see me all the time," Clarke says, but the teasing doesn't quite land.

"Not like this." He shakes his head. "Sorry. Just--I'm still not convinced this isn't a psychotic break, sometimes. So it's good to see you."

"I wish I could say the same. This is really weird."

"Yeah, well. That goes without saying."

He lets out another breath. "I guess we should go say hi, right?"

"Is this where I try to merge with myself?"

"I don't know. You're the ghost. Aren't you feeling tugged to your body or something?"

"Not really," she says. She goes over to the bed, leans down to inspect herself. She's a little translucent, as ghostlike as he's ever seen her, and it feels like someone walking over his grave, when she pokes her own arm. "I don't know what I'm expecting. I know I'm not in there." She glances back over her shoulder. "Come over."

It's still hard to make his legs work, and it's even weirder to be standing next to one Clarke and over another. She's so familiar, so beautiful, but--unconscious. Not _his_ Clarke.

"Can you go to your coma place?" he asks.

"You think I should?" She bumps her shoulder against his. "Are you going to kiss me again?"

"It feels a lot creepier." He can't stop staring at the girl in the bed. "God, it's _you_ ," he breathes, and then he finds himself reaching out, smoothing the hair back from her temple. He doesn't know how hygiene works when you're in a coma, but her hair feels soft and clean and fine under his fingers.

She's warm, for once. _Real_.

And then the monitors start beeping.

He startles back, looks for Clarke automatically so she can tell him what to do, how he's supposed to react when alarms go off, but she's--

She's gone, and in the bed, the comatose girl's eyes are fluttering.

On the one hand, it's great news. It's the best thing ever. On the other, he doesn't really want to explain to the doctors who had better be coming who he is and why he's here. Even if his touch is literally coma-curing magic, it doesn't feel like the kind of thing he should be telling anyone right now.

If Clarke remembers him, she'll get it; she knows he shouldn't be here.

"Welcome back," he murmurs, and ducks out of the room. 

There's a drinking fountain a few doors down, and that's where he goes, keeping one eye on Clarke's room. A nurse is hurrying down the hall, and once she goes into 508, he lets himself exhale and leave.

He knows her birthday; he can call for an update later. And she knows where he lives.

*

The next week is among the worst weeks of his entire life. Miller and Monty move into Clarke's room so he won't be alone; Monty doesn't have any idea _why_ he's in such rough shape, but he's willing to provide moral support, and Miller does his best to distract him.

Despite their best efforts, he reads way too many websites about coma recovery and has to remind himself that none of them probably apply, unless astral projection is a normal part of the coma experience. Whatever happened to Clarke, it was something different.

She's going to be fine.

But he thinks there's a good chance she won't remember him, for about twenty different reasons, so he's resigning himself to that now. As long as she's alive and well, it doesn't matter. That's the really important thing. And he called the hospital; she _did_ wake up. That much he knows.

He has his monthly meeting with Anya on a Saturday, almost two weeks after Clarke's recovery, and he's so nervous he can barely sleep the night before. It's supposed to be his last month. This is it.

But who knows when Clarke will be well enough to take the place back.

Anya sizes him up when he sits down, and he manages a smile.

"Hi, good to see you."

"You've looked better. I assumed summer would be less stressful for you."

"You would think. Am I looking for a new place?"

"Not unless you'd like to be." She pulls a binder out of her bag. "My client would like to renew your agreement for an additional six months, with the same terms as before."

His hands don't shake as he accepts the documents, and he makes himself scan them. It's all familiar, at this point. "How's her daughter doing?" he asks. He's asked before, and Anya always seems to accept it as a combination of politeness and self-interested curiosity.

"Well," she says, and she's never said that before. "Apparently the doctors are shocked by the speed of her recovery. My client will be returning to the area periodically, so she'd like to stay in the apartment from time-to-time, if that's acceptable. I assume you aren't using the spare bedroom."

"I can say no?" he asks, less because he wants to and more because he wants to know what she'll say. It's not like Miller and Monty need to be there.

"You're the primary caretaker. My client appreciates that. She'll pay for a hotel if need be, but obviously staying in the condo is easier for her. I believe her plan is to be here on most weekends, at least at first."

"Yeah, of course I don't mind," he says. "Just give me twenty-four hours' notice and I'm set."

Anya nods. "I'll pass along your contact information. She should be able to keep you up to date on her daughter's condition, so if you need to move out, you may hear it from her."

The thought makes him buzz with excitement. Updates on Clarke, from her mother. Given what Clarke said about her mother, it might be awkward, but--fuck, he doesn't even _care_. He'll take whatever he can get.

Miller and Monty go back home, and the rest of the summer falls into a pattern. Abby Griffin comes in on weekends so she can spend time with her daughter, and she and Bellamy have relatively little contact. He asks after Clarke in a polite, uninvolved way, which is the only way he _can_ ask, but that means Abby's answers are in kind, short and not particularly illuminating, and he has no indications of how she's doing, except that she's recovering.

If she remembers him, she hasn't mentioned it to her mother, which is for the best, but--he hates not knowing anything. He hates that he isn't supposed to care.

School starts up again, and it's a welcome distraction. He picks up a new club to supervise just to keep himself busy, and even if he's exhausted and kind of hates his life most of the time, at least he's too tired to wonder how Clarke's doing, how recovered she is, if she'll ever remember him at all, even as just some hazy dream.

Okay, well, almost too tired. Never quite tired enough.

He goes long enough without calling his sister that she gets worried, which is novel, and he promises her that he's fine, just busy, when she asks what's going on with him. It even feels true. He _is_ fine. He is.

It's early October when Abby texts him, _Will be @ condo for weekend_ , which is her usual message, so he replies, _Sounds good_ and doesn't give it any more thought. She comes down most weekends, if not quite as many any more, and he's basically gotten good at coexisting with her.

When he gets home, he's ready for Abby, but he's not ready for Clarke, leaning into the fridge, just like the first time he met her, and he drops his bag on the floor from sheer shock.

She jumps and whirls, but she doesn't disappear this time. She's right there, smiling at him a little sheepishly, wearing a t-shirt and jeans now, not the perpetual scrubs from her coma, with her hair is loose down to her shoulders.

"Oh, hi," she says. "You must be Bellamy. Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you."

Her voice is a little different, rougher, and he knows he needs to get himself together and stop staring, because he's going to freak her out. Which, okay, that would be fair, but not very productive.

"My mom said she let you know we were coming, but--"

"Yeah," he manages. "She said she would be here, but she didn't mention you, actually."

She rolls her eyes, so familiar it makes him _ache_. She's just the same. Somehow, she's still Clarke. "I guess that shouldn't be a surprise. I think she was hoping I was going to change my mind. This is kind of a trial thing? I told her I'm ready to leave rehab, my doctors say I'm ready to leave rehab, but she's convinced it's too soon and I'm going to relapse. So this is me, proving I'm fine. You don't have to deal with both of us," she adds, quickly. "My mom's in a hotel. I just missed the cat, so I wanted to come home."

"Yeah," he says again. His brain is still stuck. "Yeah, uh--she missed you too."

There's a kind of awkward pause, and before he can come up with anything she says, "Oh, shit, sorry, I'm--" She offers her hand. "I didn't even introduce myself. I'm Clarke Griffin. Thanks for taking care of everything while I was gone."

He makes his legs move just a little closer, gets his arm to move up. Her hand is warm and soft in his, and all he can think is _Clarke, Clarke, Clarke_. This living, breathing girl, this tangible person.

 _Clarke_.

"Bellamy," he says. "No problem."

"Nice to meet you," she says, but her face is a little clouded. He really hopes she's not actually having some kind of coma thing; the last thing he wants to do is call her mom because she passed out or something. "Bellamy," she adds, but the pause was too long for it to feel quite connected, and she's still shaking his hand, slow.

"Yeah," he says. "Are you--"

" _Bellamy_ ," she says, and her smile bursts onto her face, and suddenly she's in his arms, her face buried against his neck, the weight of her firm and real as he staggers back a little. "Fuck, Bellamy."

"Clarke?" he asks, and he feels her start to pull back. He can't let that happen, so he gets his brain in gear, gets his arms to come around her too, clinging on just as tight. He hadn't even realized all the things he was missing, not just the feel of her breath and the warmth of her skin, but the smell of her hair, the softness of her clothes, all these human things he told himself didn't matter. That he thought he hadn't noticed she didn't have before.

"You remember, right?" Her voice is a little watery. "I'm not totally freaking you out right now?"

"Fuck, do _I_ remember?" he asks, nuzzling her hair. "I've been losing my fucking mind for four months."

"You were dating a coma ghost for five months before that, I'm pretty sure you were already losing your mind." This time, when she pulls back, it's to grin at him, and all he can do is grin back, letting his eyes rove over her, devouring the sight of her healthy and whole and in his arms, now that it's not going to weird her out. "I guess no one told you anything, huh?"

"I got generic updates from your mom, but I couldn't really ask." He tucks her hair behind her ear, and she leans into the touch. "How _are_ you doing?"

"So much better," she says. "And, honestly, this actually explains some stuff. They said my brain function was abnormally high and my recovery was really fast, so--"

"I can't believe no one suggested you might have been a coma ghost," he teases, and she laughs.

"Yeah, that should have been the first guess." She catches her lip in her teeth, and he finds himself swaying forward, not quite sure how to take the last step, but-- 

"Bellamy," she says, and that's enough. He leans down to press his mouth against hers, and her fingers tangle in his hair, firm and strong, and her mouth is hot and open under his, everything he's been dreaming of for months and months, everything he wants.

"Clarke," he murmurs, kisses her jaw, her neck, and finds her lips again, doesn't ever want to stop kissing her. "Fuck, I missed you."

"I know," she says, and pulls him closer. "I'm back."

*

Clarke's mother still isn't convinced she's ready to leave the rehab center, which Bellamy kind of gets; he thinks it's broadly better for Clarke to be out of there, but she was _in a coma_. It seems important to make sure she's not going to do anything to get back in a coma. But he's happy to defer to the professionals, and all her doctors agree she's recovered enough to be at home, as long as she doesn't live alone.

Which starts a different argument with her mother.

"I'm sure Bellamy doesn't want to live in your guest room forever," Abby says, looking at him a little warily.

As far as Abby knows, they're friends. Fairly new friends, but the official story is that Bellamy likes her based on her taste in movies and TV, and she likes him because he was taking care of her cat. It's all totally above-board and normal. He's going to pretend he still sleeps in the guest room and everything.

"Not forever," he says. "But if I move out, I have to find a new place. If Clarke's looking for a roommate anyway, it's a lot easier for me to just stay here."

"It's not just staying," Abby protests. "Clarke might have medical issues--"

"He knows, Mom," says Clarke. "We've talked about it. I don't want live-in care, and if all I need is someone who can help out in case there's an emergency, Bellamy is fully qualified. He already lives here, we get along, and the cat likes him. He's the best choice for this."

Abby looks between the two of them, like she's expecting some sort of crack in their allied front of wanting to live together. Bellamy gives her a pleasant smile, because he's not related to her and wants her to like him, while Clarke looks vaguely exasperated.

Despite that, apparently it still works.

He can actually _see_ Abby deflate. "You won't let me hire anyone, will you?"

"Nope," says Clarke, cheerful. "Why hire someone when Bellamy can just stick around?"

"Because we could hire a medical professional," Abby says, but without much hope, and when Clarke doesn't respond, she sighs. "If you're sure, I'll get Anya to draw up a lease."

"Never been surer," Clarke says.

"Yeah," says Bellamy. "Absolutely."

Apparently she really is out of arguments, because she leaves after that, and Clarke pulls him down for a kiss, grinning.

"I told you."

"I believed you," he says. "It's not like I wanted to move out." He nips her bottom lip. "How long before we can tell her dating?"

"Maybe take it slow. We don't want her to think you've got ulterior motives."

"Perish the thought."

She runs her hand up his chest. "Too bad we can't just tell her you're the one who got me out of the coma. Then she'd love you forever."

"You just had to meet me, right?" he teases. "Couldn't resist once I was close."

"Like I was really going to miss you actually touching me," she says. "Give it a couple months, and I'll tell her. No rush, right? I'm not going anywhere."

It still feels like a minor miracle to have her in his arms, to be able to kiss her and touch her and wake up with her. To be able to go outside with her and talk to her, to go out for drinks with her and Miller and Monty, and have everyone be able to see her and talk to her.

In a way, it's nice to have someone all to yourself. But it's nice to just _have_ her. And even nicer that he gets to share her.

"Yeah," he says. "I'm not in a hurry."


End file.
